Thinking of the yellow-haired pigmy, Juliette looked out the window at the wide, clean streets. As she pondered the woman’s nebulous aspect, she recalled only that her hair was gold and her name was Daisy. The portion of her discourse regarding grave-robbing had already been proven true. It had been her experience that if part of a story was genuine, the likelihood was greater that the rest was accurate as well. And, if a man would stoop to stealing corpse, he would not scruple against soliciting on behalf of harlots. It was only by fortune of her uncommon beauty that she had not fallen prey to one of London’s pimps. As it was, she answered only to herself—at least until she had taken the idiotic notion to marry.
That little doxy was literally dripping in pearls and emeralds, but was certainly not of station (not even a maid to a person of station). How she came so recently into money was quite a mystery, but from her coarse articulation, she was not a few years out of the rookeries bordering the Thames. No doubt, that was how she learnt of Alistair’s dreadful doings. She knew his name to be “George.” It remained unclear as to why she shot him—or said she did. Perchance, in his past occupations their paths crossed. If he was shot, he was fortunate to survive it. If the wars taught them nothing, it was that few lived long after being shot, and if they did it was not without severe scarring. Alistair bore no scars or wounds, just a limp.
Daisy, the wealthy wench, said that she had shot George in the groin. Alistair was one ball shy and sporting a limp. At that moment, she realised it all must be true. The moonless night obscured the expression of clarity and fear that overspread Juliette’s lovely countenance. Shortly thereafter, another, surer expression slipped from the corner of her eye. It was one both cunning and content.
Juliette’s mind had always been quite sharp. Once she was certain of the issues at hand, she moved with near vulpine stealth. Now fully informed, she no longer feared Alistair, be he pimp, body-snatcher, murderer, or George Wickham. Information is all. That was something that anyone who lived by their wits knew well. More importantly, such tidings were far more useful when they were owned by just one party.
George Wickham had no idea that he had been exposed.
Surely, he did not believe that he would remain undiscovered. Was he that arrogant, or that stupid? With men, she knew, oft-times it is a mixture of both. The question was, how could she use him to her own ends?
Chapter 90
Above All Else
Having discharged his obligations, as he saw it, to defend his countrymen from the auspices of a truly wicked (and possibly deranged) man, Darcy made ready for home. Just knowing that Wickham was alive, and given to the worst kind of criminality, meant Darcy would make fast to protect those dearest to him. Indeed, a pang in the pit of his stomach reminded him that the cur had been at large for these past years and could have easily made his way to Pemberley to do them harm.
That he had not, only meant one thing—he had not yet.
Darcy could have allowed the matter drop after Wickham’s attempt at extorting money from him failed, but he had put his faith in the wheels of justice. The tale he had to tell of Wickham was quite astounding and, had another citizen come to authorities with such a story, it might have been met with disbelief. Coming from Mr. Darcy, not known to be prone to drink or hyperbole, it was seen as gospel. Therefore, it had been reasonable for Mr. Darcy to expect Wickham to be immediately apprehended three years past. Darcy had hied for Pemberley then under that understanding. As he was never apprised that Wickham had been remanded, he had believed him either dead or absconded.
Not only had he not been arrested, Wickham had walked the streets of London unmolested, free to wreak mayhem and harm at will. The notion of it left Darcy angry and appalled. As his ire remained barely contained, he prepared to take his leave of London still brooding over the matter. Hastings had seen to it that his personal items were carried to the coach. Darcy picked up two missives—one from Juliette and the other in a hand of execrable penmanship. He placed them in his coat pocket. He did not then, nor all the way across the country to Derbyshire, read the one from Juliette.
When he arrived home, Elizabeth had greeted him with genuine enthusiasm. She withheld full effusiveness until she could put it to good use in private. Before their family number had improved, she might have leapt upon him forthwith of closing the door. Now, there were greetings to be made to Geoff and Janie before passionate embraces could be shared. He had purchased small gifts for each of them from the horse fair. Despite its rusticity, Janie was quite pleased with her doll.
However Geoff was not even a little happy with the crudely-carved horse he was given. It was obvious that he would not be satisfied with anything less than a full-sized steed. In his young mind, he envisioned it as a black horse identical to Blackjack (he had not specified that, but it had been his secret wish). Darcy did not welcome his son’s lack of gratitude. It was ill-mannered.
Darcy remained silent, that alone disclosing his disapproval. The pout upon his son’s countenance did not fade with any rapidity.
Mr. Darcy would not have it. At least, that had been his initial response.
Beside length of bone and a firm chin, Darcy knew that he had bequeathed his son with other attributes. He recognised obstinacy in his son and knew that, however unwittingly bestowed, it was inherited from him as well. He was but a small boy who, at that moment, was quite chapfallen.
Darcy waited. After a moment, Geoff knew what was expected of him.
A bit begrudgingly, he said, “I thank you, Papa. It is a fine horse and I like it very much.”
It was the first of many untruths that he would have to tell in the name of politesse and his father was proud of him.
Placing a hand on his shoulder, he assured him, “Colonel Fitzwilliam is still in search of a colt as for you even as we speak. I promised you a horse and you shall have it.”
Knowing that the promise of a horse was not negated, just postponed, Geoff scrambled happily on his way. Janie, however, remained. Seeing his sister did not follow, Geoff stopped. Then, he came and stood by her side as she tugged at their father’s sleeve.
“Papa,” she bid.
Seeing that her expression was unusually solemn, Darcy knelt.
“Pray, what is the matter?” he asked.
Thereupon, her chin quivered and her eyes filled with tears. (Geoff did not cry, but, then, he would not look at his sister either.) Darcy pressed his daughter to his chest and patted her back. As Janie was not forthcoming about what troubled her, he looked to Elizabeth for further elucidation.
Although she knew Darcy would notice Cressida’s absence, Elizabeth had not wished to tell him of his dog’s death forthwith of his return. When she tried to speak, grief silenced her. Darcy stood; his expression was one of distress.
Prolonging his unease would have been unconscionable. Hence, Elizabeth managed to say only, “Cressida.”
His countenance altered. True sadness softened his features. Directly, he regained his composure. That was quite necessary, for only in containing his own sorrow was he thereby able to sooth his family’s.
He took his wife in his arms, whispering against her ear, “She is at peace.”
In a moment, Elizabeth gathered herself, saying, “It was I who meant to solace you.”
As Elizabeth contained her weep, the children then came to their parents. Darcy lifted Janie into his arms and kissed her cheek. Geoff hugged his father’s knees, reminding Darcy that his heart needed comforting too. Hence, Darcy stood Janie down and drew Geoff into his embrace as well.
Darcy told them, “You were very good to Cressida and we shall miss her.”
Janie wrapped her arms about his neck and wept for a moment longer. This time, Geoff patted her, repeating the same words his father had just employed.
“You were very good to Cressida, sister,” the boy said. “We shall miss her.”
After a time, everyone’s senses were settled enough that the children went off to play with their new toys
, thus allowing Elizabeth to alter the subject from what had occurred at Pemberley as to what actually happened at the horse fair.
“How was Mr. Bingley’s toe?” she asked, thus advising her husband that gossip of the melee had preceded him.
He replied, “It is much better.”
Elizabeth could not wait for greater privacy to inquire, “How did you leave Major Kneebone? Was he well too?”
Darcy glanced at her inquisitively, but did not hold her gaze, as he said, “I see word of the escapade has reached Pemberley.”
Word of the altercation, and the miscreants involved, had arrived, but not the resolution. She nodded once.
He said, “Major Kneebone was the worse for wear, but ultimately reconciled with your sister.”
“No one was injured?”
He replied, “Only the dignities of gentlemen who should know better. Bingley’s toe is quite improved.”
Naturally, Elizabeth wanted a more detailed accounting of the entire fracas, he promised her that. Both knew the telling should take place in the quiet of their chambers. He did not think of Juliette, or her missive to him again, until Goodwin removed his well-travelled coat and prepared it for a good dusting. As always, Goodwin checked the pockets for any stray papers. From the breast pocket, he withdrew Juliette’s letter. Without the appearance of looking at it, he placed it on the tableside. Only then did Darcy note something that he did not initially observe. Juliette’s missive had come by way of Pemberley. He recognised Elizabeth’s hand redirecting it to the horse-breeder at Maidenhead. From there, it was forwarded to London. Such a circuitous journey for one letter, he thought.
As Darcy had spoken to Juliette subsequent of its arrival, he saw no particular reason to read it.
At dusk, he repaired to his study. He did so with great purpose. Sitting at a writing table, he laid the poorly penned missive he had received in London before him. It was from Sally Frances Arbuthnot. Upon any other occasion, he would have been unable to imagine what might cause her to write to him. The events of the past week opened all manner of possibilities. He was then, neither altogether taken aback by her misspellings, nor by what her letter alleged.
Standing, he strode to the bookshelves to locate a piece of vellum from its upper reaches. Returning to the desk, he unrolled it. At the bottom it had been signed in Wickham’s hasty, but curlicued, scrawl.
Thomas Reed.
Closing his eyes (with either resolve or dejection—he knew not which), he took a deep, purging breath.
Wickham was alive.
Darcy was then satisfied that he had taken the precaution of leaving a letter with his solicitor in London for Howgrave. In it, he apprised him that his secretary might well be an impostor and, if he was, he was both dangerous and desperate. A confrontation might be deadly. It was all he could do at the time. It was his plan to send emissaries to make inquiries and alert the authorities, but his first duty was to keep his own family safe.
He blew out the candle and went to his wife.
Chapter 91
Prometheus and the Eagle
How about a little love-poke, m’lady?” cooed Alistair.
Juliette snapped, “Dare not speak to me in such a fashion.”
With each passing hour, the very thought of Alistair (by whatever name) had become ever-more irksome. A political party was much in evidence downstairs. The cackling laughter was not a comfort. She had little time to conjecture whether Alistair would dare steal his way up to her chambers, ere he did. It was obvious that he was intent on continuing with their farce of an affair. Time was at hand to unmask him.
Alistair cajoled, “Darling, what have I done? Nay, what can I do to make your lovely lips smile?”
“Darcy called upon me today,” she announced.
“I beg pardon?” said he. Clearly discombobulated, he gathered himself with great haste, quipping, “You then have hitherto been serviced?”
She did not allow his remark to chafe her. Rather, she imagined Alistair squirming like an eel when she confronted him with his duplicity.
Airily, she said, “Mr. Darcy came here upon a matter of business. He reports that there is an impostor in our midst.”
“I fancy then he apprised you of my little ruse,” Alistair replied.
Juliette did not respond. It had been her experience that, if left alone, the voluble sort usually spun their own nooses. As if proving the point, Alistair continued to talk.
“Darcy has always envied me—no doubt, he envies me now. It is he who set the magistrate upon me, thereby forcing me to assume another identity. One could say that any blame lies with him.”
He then quit the subject of his lies and misrepresentations to attempt to flatter her, “I must say I was altogether astonished to learn, not only that Darcy had once taken a lover, but that he had bedded possibly the most exquisite creature in all of London.”
Alistair then tipped his glass of wine in her direction before continuing, “To think, all that came to pass without me learning of it until now. I had been quite certain that Darcy was... prim upon matters of amour. Did he happen upon you whilst on some drunken debauch?”
She laughed, “I assure you he did not.”
Alistair laughed too, but it was bit hollow.
Recalling her first meeting with Darcy, Juliette thoughtfully twirled a tendril of her hair between two fingers.
Lost in that moment, she said, “The conditions he required—even to deign an introduction—were quite rigid. To engage him one had to be inviting, but not forward, witty, but not cutting, vivacious, but not eagre. His demands were far too complicated for some middling chit to manage. The reward, however, was quite....”
Juliette told Alistair far more than she meant to about Darcy’s taste—in conversation and congress. To be so forthcoming was quite unlike her. She blamed her lapse in discretion upon Alistair. His smugness had begged comeuppance. The expression upon his countenance was one she could not quite gauge. It seemed an odd mixture of jealousy and conceit. Alistair quickly righted himself. Indeed, he raised his arms to her.
“Come to me, my pet. If Darcy did not requite your every dream, I am here for you.”
As she did not move to him, he divested himself of his wine and went to her. From behind, he slipped his arms about her, encircling her just below the bosom. His breath hot on her ear, he said, “You did not believe Darcy’s lies, did you? He is determined to have me silenced. In truth, I am....”
Just as he began to repeat his usual inventions, half-truths, and outright prevarications, the door was opened. Sir Henry Howgrave stood in open-mouthed disbelief. He had meant only to invite his wife to meet new contributors—his way of apologising for his earlier accusations. He found his wife and his secretary in an attitude that left little to the imagination. Indeed, Howgrave’s fleshy jowls trembled with outrage and a vein in his temple throbbed. In a trice, he saw that he had not erred in accusing his wife of adulterous conduct, only the identity of her paramour.
To Juliette, Howgrave said, “It isn’t that damned Darcy who is the rutting-dog after all!”
To Alistair, Howgrave howled with injury, “Alistair? How could you?”
His little game was exposed, but Alistair (a veteran of weathering husbandly outrage) was quite indifferent to that fact. He threw his head back and cast out an irrefutable indictment of Sir Henry Howgrave—one that cut the poor man to the core.
He said, “Ahoy! If it is not Freddy Dumpstitch!”
With that singular insult, full recognition hit Howgrave. His mouth was agape, seconds passed by ere he could utter more than affronted grunts. When at last, he spoke; he knew exactly whom he addressed.
“George Wickham! They said you were dead! Yet, here you are, still nothing but a worthless mutton-monger! And a wolf in sheep’s clothing to boot!”
Howgrave’s metaphors might have been a bit imprecise, but his appraisal of his secretary’s duplicitousness was exceedingly accurate. Moreover, with his husbandly pride gouged in
the worst possible manner, Howgrave was out for blood. In appearance, word, and deed, he was no longer the impotent cuckold Wickham had so often belittled. Indeed, Wickham suddenly realised that he may have baited the wrong bear. Hence, he shifted seamlessly from perpetrator to victim.
“It was her!” said Wickham, pointing at Juliette. “She begged me, appealed to my vanity, saying that you cannot satisfy her. I defended your honour, but her wiles are many. I was putty in her designing hands!”
Howgrave turned his wrath upon Juliette. Pinning her against her escritoire, his hand came down across her mouth, splitting her lip.
Wickham continued to prod him, “She denigrated your manhood whilst fondling mine. Pray, what man can contain his lust against such ways?”
Howgrave hit his wife again. As if a puppeteer, Wickham cast an aspersion and Howgrave slapped his wife. It was a test as to which man’s passion was more inflamed. It was Wickham, however, who had the misjudgement of allowing his gleeful grin to come within Howgrave’s eye-line. This redirected that man’s rage from his faithless wife to his faithless friend. Gurgling with fury, he lunged at Wickham. Easily the more nimble of the two, Wickham dodged him, scrambling just beyond his grasp. Wickham made a vain attempt to steer him back to Juliette, but he caught his toe on the edge of the carpet.
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